Here is something that makes me want to shove a cannon up my ass and light the fuse… MULTITASKING.. You read right — multitasking! You know — even MORE work, for the SAME pay, getting even less shit done right!

Personally, I’m so maxed out on multitasking, the only thing I’m getting done these days is absolutely nothing! And I can’t even get THAT right!!

I think I’m gonna get me an INTERN! You know, somebody I can multitask the shit out of and work to death, without having to pay him a penny! Yeah!

I said “him,” because it HAS to be a “he”. Gay would be good. A “she” might sue me for sexual harassment, only because I might accidentally rub against her fake boobies when asking her to make me a sandwich. A gay “he” might thank me.

So, you want to know what I think about multitasking? Multitask THIS, Baybeeee!!!!

P.S. For all of you multitask victims in denial out there: There is a wonderful 12-step, recovery group out there… www.multitaskersanonymous.com
It works! One task at a time!!
First task? Shove a cannon up your ass and light the fuse!!

Got me a GPS for Christmas. About time, because I do a lot of driving
to strange places, and if there is a way to get lost, I will find it!
Google maps are sorta kinda OK, but they’re worth shit in the dark,
and they don’t talk to me. Not like my GPS, which I have named
Floozie. And Google maps don’t put me back on the right track like
Floozie does when I miss a turn, or exit, or on-ramp.

Floozie certainly knows a lot. She’s a mobile unit, so I tested her
in my home to find out exactly how much. You know, see if she can
show me the way from the kitchen to the bathroom. Well, would you
believe? She found it! Mind you, she took me through a few of my
neighbors’ apartments first, constantly having to recalculate, but
eventually she calmly informed me in that Valium-stoned voice of hers
that I had arrived at my destination. And she was right – I had.

One thing that bugs me about Floozie is that I can’t talk back to
her, or disagree. Maybe I can, but she ignores me. I can yell and
curse and bitch at her, she never looses her cool. The same applies
when I mess with her and don’t follow her directions. During a recent
trip, I passed every single Interstate exit she told me to take for
sixty miles. I was certain that after the millionth recalculation,
she’d whack out on me and scream, “Hey, you stupid asshole, who do
you think I am? Get the next off-ramp right, or I’ll shut the fuck
up!” Nope, not Floozie. Floozie is unflappable and all-forgiving.

I thought Floozie might be less forgiving when my girlfriend was
recently driving with me and tried to argue that she knew a better
route than Floozie suggested. I was sure they’d get into a bitch
fight. But, no. While my girlfriend’s voice got louder and louder and
shrieking higher and higher, Floozie just munched away on her Valium and
remained calm. Not so my girlfriend who, in the middle of moving
traffic, opened the passenger door and threatened to jump out with
the ultimatum: “Make up your mind. You either listen to me, or that
Floozie bitch. Pick Floozie and I’m outta here and we’re finished!”
Naturally, I picked my girlfriend. After all, Floozie is pretty
awesome, but she doesn’t make me sandwiches, or give BJ’s.
Floozie understood.

One thing that Floozie made me aware of that had never occurred to me
before, was that of all the thousands of street names out there, named after
famous people like presidents, scientists, poets, musicians, movie
stars and Saints, there doesn’t appear to be a single Jesus Christ
Street anywhere. A Martin Luther King Jr. Street in every city, town and
village in the country, but no God Jr. Street on the entire planet.
Funny that, huh? In fact, I think there is only one other street name
that’s more popular than MLK Jr — Main Street. Now, who the hell is
Main? What did Main ever do? What made Main so damn famous?

Nobody conceived it. Nobody intended it.
It emerged.
Somehow.
Like a third breast on a clandestine woman.
Somewhere.
In a barren, sun baked Southern California sandbox. Spawned by notions, dreams and lust. They called it:

HOLLYWOOD

Imagine…
The world’s greatest Marionette Theater. Where heaven and hell overlap. Where devils dance with saints.
Where Beauty and the Beast trade underwear.
The strangest ghetto on earth. In which its spellbound captives pray not for escape but for entrance.
Where everybody fits, for everyone’s a misfit.
Where there is but one Commandment, “Thou Shalt Not Get Caught”.
Where passion mutates into addiction.
Where friendship is disposable.
Where principles are mutable.
Where love is negotiable.
Where promises are tactical.
Where honesty is a poker game.
Where nature’s clock doesn’t tick but sighs – hexing time into a stretching, pulling rubber band that fools us.
Where there is no future, for nothing ever lasts long enough to become one. Only past and present; an endless cycle of beginnings and middles; dreams from which we awaken before we find out what happens in the end.

HOLLYWOOD.

The mild tempered boiling pot.
Which forever simmers but never boils.
Over a furnace to which eagerly rallies, compelled to worship at the shrine of wishful thinking, mesmerized by blind faith vision, dying to be consumed for an elusive moment, that wondrous congregation called:

ARTISTS

That peculiar creed of obsessive narcissistic masochists, who obsessively feed their bulimic self-esteem with creations and illusions; cursed to embrace perpetual rejection as a way of life; driven to take their pains to market.

HOLLYWOOD

Where heroes and villains of legends past resurrect and gather at the perennial festival of Deja Vu to once again challenge their futile quests…Sisyphus rocking ‘n’ rolling, Icarus soaring too close to the sun, Don Quixote battling the infernal windmills…
That’s Hollywood.
Bewitching the world as the purveyor of happy endings, yet eternally in search of its own.

Oh, sure, we may FEEL as young as we feel, but we are every bit as old as we are! ‘Don’t believe me? Check your odometer!

Because, let’s face it – we ARE like cars aren’t we? After a certain mileage, things go wrong, and we are wayyyy out of warranty…! A leak here, a rattle there… starter shot, muffler clogged up and sputtering… a flat every other day…

That’s why I carry some Viagra around with me at all times, just in case, right here in my left pocket in a little blue box. That’s so I don’t confuse them with my laxatives in my right pocket in a little red red box.

He, he… the other night I got ’em mixed up… Whoooo! Talk about the shit hitting the fan! Mama Mia! I didn’t know if I was coming or going…!

While every one of his buddies had girlfriends, he had none.
Only in his fantasies would his passions come alive.

Until, one day, when he was so powerfully drawn to the
voice of an accidental telephone caller that he momentarily
overcame his timidness. Her name was Jennifer. Before long,
Jack and Jennifer were engaged in the most captivating
conversation, sharing laughs and giggles, even revealing secret
dreams and wishes.

That first telephone conversation was followed by many
others, each one drawing Jack and Jennifer closer, each one
stirring their hearts and arousing their passion, until both were
madly in love with one another.

Finally, Jack mustered all of his courage and asked Jennifer
to meet him in person. Jennifer was overjoyed, having yearned
for Jack’s invitation for a long time.

At the rendezvous point, something dreadful happened.
Jennifer, though charming and personable, was far from the
beauty which Jack had fantasized, and the chemistry was zero.
Tragically, and within seconds, all the love and dreams and
bonds that Jack and Jennifer had so innocently braided
collapsed like a house of cards in a sneeze.

Jack was heartbroken. So was Jennifer, who at once
recognized Jack’s reluctance by his chilling politeness. Even
though they promised to stay in touch and remain friends, they
never saw or spoke to each other ever again.

Several months later, Jack had a further encounter with an
anonymous someone named Melinda. Again, from the abstract
distance via a telephone connection, their hearts fell into each
other’s laps. This time, it didn’t take Jack very long to request
a personal meeting, feeling absolutely certain that even if
Melinda were far less attractive than his imagination painted
her to be, it wouldn’t matter. Her inner beauty was sure to
overshadow any external shortcomings.

Once again, Jack arrived at the meeting point aflame in
anticipation, heart pounding. Alas, once
again, the unthinkable happened. Melinda revealed herself to
be a rather homely looking girl, physically unattractive to Jack.
Once again, a mirage vanished, and Jack and Melinda, despite
promises to the contrary, never spoke again.

Jack was disgusted with himself, with human nature and
with people’s preoccupation with superficialities and physical attraction.
In a rage, vowing that he would never again in his life allow physical image to cause him to reject anyone,
he grabbed a knife and gouged out both of his eyes.

It was almost a year later when fate decided to strike a third
time. Jack once again became infatuated with a stranger on the
telephone Gabriella. Within moments, Jack and she were
enveloped in the most elating conversation, quickly feeling as
if they had known each other forever. This time, Jack asked for
a date at once.

The very next day, Jack sat restlessly at an outdoor cafe
table, his dark shades firmly saddled upon his nose as he
nervously fumbled his cane, waiting for Gabriella to arrive for
their first meeting. Several eternal minutes later, the waiter
delivered Gabriella to the table. Already enchanted by Jack’s
soul and the magical charm of his childlike spirit, she only
needed to take one glance at him to be overwhelmed with desire
for him, having no doubt in her heart that this was the man with
whom she wanted to spend their rest of her life.

Jack smiled shyly in the direction of Gabriella’s soft words,
oblivious, in his eternal state of darkness, that his hollow eyes
were beholding the most beautiful woman they would ever
have seen, but never could.

“I’m sorry, we have no such fares. One way or the
other, all relationships are terminal. Even if break-ups or divorce
don’t get you, death will. So there is no ‘Happy Ever
After.’ The closest we have is a ‘Happy Ending’ fare. But, as
the definition implies, that still only gets you to temporary
happiness—at the end. And what good is it at the end?”

“You have no one–way flights at all?”

“Oh, certainly we have one-way flights. Just no one-way
fares. In fact, most of our flights are one way. By default, not
by design, because most of
our planes crash. Many do so shortly after takeoff.

“So how come anybody even flies at all?”

“Because everybody believes in their heart that they will be
the exception. Many are previous crash survivors, who step
onto a new flight even while still bleeding from the last
disaster.”

“How do you even find pilots and flight crews?”

“It’s not easy. They are mostly made up of artists,
entertainers, writers, dreamers and the odd politician…you know, romantic idealists
who believe they can defy the laws of nature and
make the impossible possible. Sometimes they do. Those are
the flights that make it through. But most of our planes are
remote controlled, if not by automatic pilot, then by deities,
psychics, shrinks, or self-help book authors…. You know….”

“How can you even stay in business?”

“Stay in business? Are you kidding? Business is booming!
We have a huge waiting list. There are all the young and naive
first-time fliers who can’t wait to get aboard. Of course, many
of them only look for short pleasure trip specials. Then there is
our repeat business. Lots and lots of repeat business. People
rarely die in these crashes. They go insane, get ruined, end up
heartbroken and become depressives, but they rarely die.
Believe me, a lot more people die from loneliness! Not only do
most of the crash victims keep coming back for
more, but they even upgrade to first class, willing to pay any
price!”

“Hmm….”

“Did you still want to purchase a ticket?”

“Yes, I think so. I don’t want to be alone.”

“Yes, alone sucks. There’s no one to share it with. Mind you, it’s better to be alone than to be with the wrong person.”

“Not much!”

“True. Well, anyway, you can choose between the fantasy or the dream package.”

“What’s the difference?”

“With the fantasy package, anything is possible. The dream
package is more specific, but less expensive.”

“I’ll take the fantasy package.”

“Good choice. Lasts longer. And the risks are about the
same. Now, which route did you want to fly? Chemistry,
infatuation, or the big ‘L’?”

“Big ‘L’?”

“Well, love, of course. At least falling in it. See? The word ‘falling’ should give you hint of the risk you’re taking.”

“Sorry. Do you give out any on-board manuals that at least
help a little bit to avoid disappointments?”

“No, not really. There is a library, though. Books and videos.
“Men are from Mars…”, Linda Goodman’s
Sun Signs, Creative Visualizations, some Chopra and Shirley
MacLaine books, and a couple of George Carlin concerts and
Monty Python films…you know, stuff like that.”

“George Carlin and Monty Python?”

“Certainly. To cheer you up when you get dumped.”

“What if I decide to get off the relationship flight altogether
at a stop over. Can I get back on later and continue my journey?”

“Yes, that is possible. We have some twelve-step programs
we can hook you up with during those times-out.”